


A Blast From the Past

by Highly_Illogical



Series: The Age That Should Have Been [5]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Merlin, Blood Magic, Court Sorcerer Merlin, Episode: s02e01 The Curse of Cornelius Sigan, Gen, Happy Ending, Magic, Minor Injuries, Possession, Spells & Enchantments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 16:18:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16122230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Highly_Illogical/pseuds/Highly_Illogical
Summary: As the eventuality of war with Essetir looms closer, Arthur wants Merlin to see to the city's magical defenses. The task seems impossible, but he gets help from some unlikely sources, including friends and an old enemy he'd believed to be long gone.





	A Blast From the Past

**Author's Note:**

> BEWARE THE MONSTER.  
> What is it that always makes these stories get away from me? I had no idea this would turn out so long.
> 
> Yes, this has been done a million times, but I hope I gave it my own spin. Enjoy!

The prospect of war casts a permanent air of tension over the citadel. The danger only feels like clouds darkening the skies in the distance that may yet release their load of rain somewhere else, but the silent mix of fear and determination has a way of sneaking up on you when you least expect it, showing its ugly face in a myriad little signs even as the citizens pretend that life is going on as usual.

It's in the patrols keeping more and more of the knights away, tasked with reporting even the slightest whiff of trouble.

It's in the carefully worded letters on Arthur's desk, sealed and unsent, ready to go to his most trusted allies in case Lot manages to amass such forces that he feels the need to call for their aid.

It's in Merlin's newfound tendency to collect bumps and bruises in training, at least from those select few who have seen the wisdom in learning just enough words in the old tongue to discern whether the threat is likely to come from above or below. Armed with their knowledge, they sidestep and power through his spells in turn (the latter still being Percival's undisputed specialty), and though the odds are still in his favor, given the knights' penchant for getting out of one trap just to walk into another, they've already come a long way since the first time, and Merlin is paying for it by turning black and blue in strange places. No matter, Gaius can sacrifice some more of his salves for the love of Camelot.

It's in the king's gaze as he looks out over the battlements, drinking in his pride and joy and yet somehow not seeing it at all.

“They're doing well,” he says, but he sounds vaguely as though he hoped that by making optimistic remarks, he might actually start believing them.

“We're all as worried as you are. You don't have to pretend nothing's wrong.”

“Worrying does little good if you sit by and do nothing about it. I've been thinking about something, but it may not even be feasible.”

Merlin is half a second away from suggesting he take this to Sir Leon or someone better versed in strategy, but he supposes there's a reason he's running it by him, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“What we've been doing is all well and good; regular training is going about as well as can be expected, and at least now we stand a slightly better chance if magic is involved. But most of it works under the assumption that we're meeting the enemy in an open field. If Lot finds an excuse to come to us and he has sorcerers on his side, I hate to think about the rebuilding. Does it even matter if the men within the citadel are ready, when the place could simply crumble?”

He runs a hand over the battlements with a tenderness to make Guinevere jealous.

“To me, it looks like these walls are going to be standing for a long while yet.”

“Says the one who could reduce them to rubble with a word.”

“Oh, come off it, I…” But the rest of it catches in his throat, because the first answer that came to mind was ‘I wouldn't’ rather than ‘I couldn't’, and the implications don't bear thinking about. He stares out at the bustling courtyard below to escape the unspoken ‘I told you so’ in the king's eyes.

“So I'm asking you in an official capacity: how would the citadel fare under direct magical attack? Plain old soldiers scaling the walls we can deal with, but the thought of a siege aided by sorcerers is…” The sentence remains unfinished, and there's more meaning in what he doesn't say than in what he does.

“That depends. Assuming Lot has sorcerers at all, we don't know if he's hired one or a hundred, or how powerful they might be.”

“Ever heard of hoping for the best, but preparing for the worst? After watching you single-handedly defeat my best men without touching them, I hardly think seeing to the city's magical defenses is out of your reach.”

That's enough to teach Merlin an interesting use for the battlements—namely, that they've just saved him from toppling over in shock and falling off.

“And how do you propose I do that?”

“I thought the whole point of having a Court Sorcerer was so that matters of magic were out of my hands. Whatever you can think of, I expect you to inform me first, of course.”

He thinks he manages a “Yes, sire,” but it's all he can do not to run as he takes his leave, because he wanted nothing better than a _real_ job, for his title to mean something, and now that it has come, he just wants to hide.

Magic alone does not make a Court Sorcerer. He knows now, in the face of this new and impossibly tall order, that if there were more magic users in Camelot, if they hadn't died or fled and left the king with little choice, he would have picked someone else, someone with an education more akin to his own, who knows what it's like to wage war and what it takes to win it, who can navigate politics and tactics as easily as breathing, not a former peasant who doesn't know what he's doing. His imagination, once a source of a thousand far-fetched excuses and half-baked plans, is coming up blank.

If his title felt empty at first, now it suddenly feels too full, too much for one person to handle. Rationally, he knows he isn't Camelot's only line of defense: even with his raw power, he's not about to replace a fully trained army. Arthur's mind has been shaped to have backup plans within backup plans for all eventualities, and he's certainly not expecting his knights to lie back and watch Merlin have his way with the enemy the way he did on the training grounds, because what if he's somehow unavailable? If there's one thing Merlin does know about tactics, it's that you should never count too much on a single asset, because if that's suddenly taken from you, you're as good as dead.

But no matter how much he tells himself that the others can put up a valiant fight without him, that the city is not so easy a target even if he can't think of a solution, the prospect of failing is… he can hardly finish that thought. If he goes to the king and says he can't do it, or worse, if he tries something and it doesn't withstand the test of war, then Camelot will have to do without a Court Sorcerer, because either Arthur will sack him, let down by his incompetence at his new job as well as at the old one, or he'll leave himself, unable to live with the honors of a title that clearly doesn't belong to him.

He doesn't even realize his aimless pacing has taken him to the physician's tower until he's already past the familiar door, old instinct governing his feet while his thoughts are miles away.

“Merlin! I hardly ever see you anymore.”

They both know Gaius is blatantly exaggerating, that he's still lending a hand outside of meetings and practice and that he's been seeing him quite enough as a patient now that the latter has improved, but all the same, Merlin misses the easy familiarity of shared meals taken in the permanent clutter of medical paraphernalia.

“Are you unwell?” the old man asks when he fails to respond.

“I'm in way over my head, Gaius. I don't know why I ever wanted this.”

He drops into a chair without thinking, and they're suddenly right back to the way things were, as if the gesture had turned back time and he were still the errand boy in need of advice. The latest developments spill out of his mouth of their own accord, and by the time he's finished, he's still terrified and no closer to an idea, but at least he's a little less miserable, because in here, no one will fault him for either.

“‘Whatever you can think of,’ he says, as if it were that easy. I mean, we've been practicing working with that shield spell, but I don't trust it to cover the entire citadel and still hold for long, it was never meant to. I don't know the first thing about how to defend a city, there really must be a streak of madness in the Pendragon line if he thinks I can do this.”

“You'll think of something, I know you will.”

“Is that all you've got? Because right now, that makes one of us.”

“I've always believed in you more than you did yourself, my boy. Magic built this place, don't tell me it can't come up with a trick or two to defend it.”

Merlin leaps to his feet as if the chair were scalding hot. How did he not see it? It's so obvious he could laugh at his own idiocy.

“What?”

“Don't you see? I don't need to come up with new spells, because _they're already there_. I owe you one. If this goes the way I hope, you won't need to touch the leech tank for as long as you live, I promise you that.”

“I'm only too happy to hold you to that, but I'm not sure I follow.”

“You'll see.”

When he shows up in the royal chambers with his budding plan, knocking in a way that is just shy of pounding, Arthur's eyebrows climb up in astonishment.

“You know, when I gave you that order, I expected it to take some research, or that you would come telling me you had to wait for the right alignment of the planets or some such nonsense. Can we go over this again?”

“Remember Cedric?”

“Cedric…” he echoes, pretending to search his memory. “The one you proceeded to tackle after telling me he was possessed by an evil spirit?”

“Of all the things you could say, _that's_ what you take away from it? But yes, that Cedric. The sorcerer who possessed him helped build Camelot, that's why he could control the gargoyles.”

“You're saying they could do the same to our enemies, instead of turning on us? I don't know what it says about us, but I can't find it in me to be surprised. Impressed, maybe, if you can pull it off, but surprised? I'm beginning to believe I've erased that word from my vocabulary entirely.”

“It may not be the only thing. The man booby-trapped his tomb, who knows what else he put in the walls. Don't you think they look a bit too new for all the rain, hail and snow they've seen? When was the last time any part of the citadel was struck by lightning? Sigan was a very proud man. If he built the place, he would have wanted to protect his creation in every way possible.”

“I'm not sure I like how easily you can step into his shoes, but it makes sense. I have only one stipulation.”

“Name it.”

“I'm coming with you. I don't know what it will look like, but people are less likely to panic if they see you have my approval.”

Arthur clearly didn't expect to see him ready to set off immediately, no strange preparation required, but he leads the way to the gates without further objections, glaring away the evident doubts of the guards posted outside, who are instantly suspicious of the way Merlin is studying the walls.

“So?”

“Give me a minute, it's not as though I do this every day. Sire,” he adds belatedly, because it wouldn't do to disrespect the king within earshot of two men who look like they could pick him up and toss him around like children playing with a ball.

The wall feels, he supposes, like every other wall in the world: cool to the touch and with no hint of magic at all except maybe in its preternatural smoothness under his probing fingers. Perhaps he's letting his imagination run away with him, but he gets the impression that such a thing must have sprouted fully formed from the earth, or been shaped by magic to achieve a flawless surface no stonemason can hope for. But even that has imperfections, traces of subsequent additions and old cracks mended well after Sigan left this world, history written in stone. If not because he knows, he would never guess it was erected with the help of a sorcerer: perhaps because so much time has passed, this doesn't feel like a spike of magic strong enough to stop him in his tracks when it hits his senses. If it's still there at all, it must be hidden deep within, ready to wake from its slumber at his touch.

He has no clue what to say, but then again, he was doing magic before he could stammer out ‘Mama’, so that ought to count for something. Hands splayed out on the wall in front of him, only peripherally aware of Arthur's wary gaze on him, he reaches out the only way he knows how: a shapeless burst of power stretching deep into the stones, feeling blindly around for a response.

The dizziness hits him so suddenly he has to lean forward into the wall to keep standing. For the briefest moment, he's overwhelmed by the impression of a vast network of magic crisscrossing in all directions, enveloping the city like the tight links of a net, and then the fine tendrils flare with power, foreign and familiar at once, there's a burning pain where his palms are touching the wall, and the world goes dark.

 

He awakes to a sort of pulling sensation, as if something were dragging him bodily back to consciousness, and his first groggy thought is that he wants a bath, because there's an echo of the unknown magic clinging to his skin, and it feels filthy. He groans weakly, blinking the room into focus, to find Gaius's concerned face leaning over him. The pungent smell of countless herbs competing for dominance is the first thing that tells him he must be back in his chambers.

“What happened?” he asks once he can get his tongue to respond.

“That's what I'd like to know.” Merlin startles. His awareness is coming back in increments, and he had failed to notice Arthur hovering some distance away from the patients' cot, out of the physician's way. “You had hardly touched the wall when you seized up and dropped like a stone. Bringing you up here was the only thing I could think of.”

“And a good thing you did it so quickly, sire. A lesser man would not have survived. He very nearly didn't. That curse was clearly meant to kill.”

“What curse?”

“As best as I can determine, one of many left behind by Cornelius Sigan. By the king's description, I'm not sure what you were trying, but the citadel itself resisted, and with lethal force, by the looks of it.”

He shudders. He's no stranger to close brushes with death, but one never gets used to it. He realizes now why the blast of magic that almost took his life didn't feel completely alien—he's touched it before, when Sigan attempted to possess him the same way he did Cedric.

“How am I still here? You can't fight magic without magic, not directly.”

“I… may have started practicing again since the new laws passed.”

He tries for a grin, but his face has other plans and it comes out more like a grimace. “And it just slipped your mind to tell me?”

“I'm old and rusty, and most of what I can do with magic can be accomplished nearly as well without. I thought it best to tell you only when I was certain it wouldn't come to nothing.”

“Careful, you've got competition,” says Arthur teasingly. “If Gaius didn't already have a job, having him as Court Sorcerer would be considerably less annoying.”

In happier circumstances, Merlin would have a snippy retort to that, but the only thing that fills his sluggish mind right now is that they'd all be better off if Arthur hadn't meant it as a joke. Some Court Sorcerer he is if he only manages to get cursed for his trouble.

“I'm sorry,” he mumbles. “I failed you.”

“You encountered complications,” Arthur corrects him. “Happens to the best of us. You fall back on your backup plan and keep going.”

Merlin looks away in shame. “There isn't a backup plan. I overestimated myself, I thought I could take control of Sigan's magic somehow, but I barely touched it and look what happened. And it's everywhere, Arthur, I felt it, the city is full of it, I can't just break it and start over. I… I can't do it. I'm sorry.”

He tells himself he's only imagined the look of disappointment, but he's not that much of a fool.

 

“This doesn't make any sense.” Gaius has mandated rest and kept him in his chambers after the king left, but he suspects the old man did it as much for his physical wellbeing as for his painfully obvious need for a willing ear. “For one thing, Camelot has been attacked with magic before, and I didn't see any of _them_ dropping like flies. And second…” The rant dies on his lips. He can't bring himself to say it.

“I think I have a fairly good idea where this is going, but go on.”

Merlin sighs. “I'm supposed to be the most powerful sorcerer to ever live, but clearly, he's got me beat.”

“You already defeated him once.”

“That was Kilgharrah, not me. I wouldn't have had a clue without him.”

“The Great Dragon didn't give you the power to do it, Merlin, only the knowledge of how to use it. In terms of knowledge, yes, I'm afraid Sigan had decades of study on you, but in terms of raw power… I'm glad his soul is back where it belongs, because the world would rue the day you two went up against each other. And I think I know which one of you would make it out alive.”

“I don't have decades, Gaius. For all I know, Lot could be on our doorstep in weeks. And I wouldn't even know where to begin studying anyway; it's not like Camelot has thousands of books of magic to choose from. All burnt with their owners, I expect. It's a miracle the one you gave me survived at all.”

That seems to take ten years off the old man's face. “What if Sigan himself wrote one? It was not uncommon; with how far you've come, it's a wonder you haven't yet. On the one hand, he strikes me as the sort of man who guarded his secrets very closely, so it's just as likely he never put quill to parchment in his life for fear that they would be stolen, but on the other hand, the thought of his accomplishments going down in history would have appealed to him, and he might have wanted to leave as much documentation as possible.”

“So when he helped build Camelot… you think he might have left records of how he did it? That could tell me how to get past the curse!”

“My thoughts exactly, but if such a book exists, I hardly think he left it out in the open for anyone to find.”

“There's only one place I can think of.” Merlin scrambles to his feet and motions to leave, his urgency renewed, eager to tell Arthur the news. Maybe he hasn't failed after all.

“Merlin! I never said you'd rested enough!”

But he's out the door almost before he can finish the sentence, and he doesn't stop until he's knocking on the king's door.

“Enter.”

He slips in, breathlessly, to be met by a raised eyebrow that feels as though he's never left his mentor's room at all.

“Let me get this straight, Merlin,” says Arthur by way of a greeting. “You never bothered to knock when you were my manservant, and now that you've been promoted, you finally learn? Your head works in strange ways.”

“I can pop back out for a minute and barge in unannounced, if you'd like, for old times' sake,” he quips, buoyed by his newfound optimism. Arthur just shakes his head at his antics.

“Do you have a reason for being here besides your usual prattle?”

The words seem to suck the teasing mood out of the room.

“As a matter of fact, yes.” He'll think this is mad, for sure. He'd be better off sneaking to the crypts without permission, just like before.

“Are you just going to stand there, or do you intend to tell me within the next week?”

“What if I tell you there's a possibility I can get past Sigan's curse?”

“That's excellent news, Merlin. Which doesn't explain why you look like a little boy caught stealing treats.”

“It may prove… complicated. There's no guarantee at all; if it were up to me, I wouldn't even tell you, so as not to get your hopes up.”

“But you did, so I'm clearly involved somehow.”

“I have my first proper request. As Court Sorcerer, I mean.” It strikes him now how rarely he says the words himself; his title is for others to use, and it feels strange in his mouth. “See, there was a reason I knocked. This deserves it.”

“Go on. If it's reasonable, I don't see why not, but if it sends half my forces on some mad quest halfway across the world…”

“I need you to unseal Sigan's tomb.”

“You what? Is it safe? Trouble from within is the last thing we need.”

“It should be, as long as nobody touches the jewel. Or the booby traps.”

“Only you could tell me something should be safe and yet manage not to make it sound safe at all.”

“I don't need a search party. You won't risk any of your men in there, I can go alone.”

“Need I remind you what happened last time you touched anything that had to do with Sigan?”

“I still have a better chance than anyone of getting out of there alive, and hopefully not empty-handed.”

“We need to talk about that self-sacrificing streak of yours, but… request granted.”

Merlin is suddenly seized by the sensation that it was too easy and there must be a catch.

“Just like that? Without even knowing what I'm looking for?”

“Don't they have a saying about not looking a gift horse in the mouth in Ealdor?”

 

The place is exactly as they left it: a motley collection of unashamed wealth left to rot with the man who accumulated it as if it could follow him into the afterlife, or whatever you call it when he's not truly dead. Piles of gold that probably amount to more than Merlin could earn in several lifetimes; mounds of glittering jewels, some still scattered on the floor as if someone had upset them and the men who sealed the tomb never bothered to pick up after them; sets of dinner plates and goblets in precious metals, all marked with fine lines that might look like scratches until you look at them just the right way and realize they form the emblem of a raven, repeated over and over in obsessive patterns, in the cutlery, in the pieces of custom-made jewellery he must have worn in his day, in the decorative statues whose beady little eyes seem to follow Merlin's cautious exploration, ready to release their poisoned arrows if he takes one wrong step.

Perhaps his impression is distorted by what he knows, but this is truly the tomb of someone who succeeded in cheating death. It is not a resting place: it is a shrine to himself, a room that a man like Sigan would have been pleased to come back to. It's fitting that this spectacle would be the first thing he wanted to see upon his return.

And at the heart of it all, in more ways than one, is the eerie blue glow of the vessel of Sigan's soul. The massive heart-shaped jewel has been slotted back where it belongs, where the beating heart would be if the figure carved on the heavy lid of the sarcophagus were flesh and blood, and Merlin doesn't envy the man who did it, working with trembling hands in the knowledge that one wrong move could set off a trap or break the evil within out of its fragile containment once more. Short of finding out that the book is buried with the sorcerer's very bones, Merlin is going nowhere near it.

He doesn't trust himself to use magic to aid in his search. He knows for a fact that it can be used in the room without necessarily triggering a trap, but knowing the man, he might just have been lucky and happened upon one of the plates that weren't cursed—there, it's still dented. He doesn't have an exact map of where the hazards might be, and if any of Sigan's possessions react to magic the way the walls did, he's reduced to good old elbow grease. Searching for one specific item among hundreds if not thousands without the privilege of his extra sense, he feels… not blind and deaf, exactly, but as though seeing through dirty glass, with his ears stuffed with wax. He's suddenly glad he had the foresight to beg off all his other obligations for the day, because this might take quite some time.

There is no method to his search, but then again, there is no great method to the room either, as far as he can see. The tomb, he suspects, is very much a reflection of the owner: at one point, there might have been some semblance of order in the way his riches were arranged, a hint of the existence of a section for fine silverware, one for robes that must have been the height of fashion back then, even more opulent than anything he's ever seen on Arthur, one for jewel-encrusted weapons that look better for show than for use in battle, a sign of vanity more than prowess, useless as anything but pretty trinkets to a sorcerer of his power; but as Sigan accrued more and more and his mind grew more unhinged, the system collapsed on itself, sections bleeding into one another, things thrown where they didn't belong without a care in the world for their true value. There's no point combing through this methodically: even if he happened upon a collection of books, his quarry might be buried under a pile of gold coins with the face of a long-dead king at the other end of the room.

All the same, his heart leaps into his throat when he opens a delicately carved cabinet, expecting the gleam of more valuable metals, and his eyes meet the dull brown of well-used leather spines. This, he thinks, must be from when Sigan was still reasonably sane, because a quick inspection reveals that they're sorted alphabetically; however, skimming the titles also brings the cold shock of disappointment. Not one of them is about magic at all: there are treatises on hunting, falconry and just about every activity under the sun that a man of Sigan's station might have engaged in, but looking at this, you would guess the tomb to belong to a wealthy nobleman without a spark of power in his veins. He shuts the door with an angry bang that thunders off the walls in an echo and resumes his search.

For a moment, he fears there might be some sort of slow-acting curse on the whole place, because he can swear he feels his own sanity slipping as he rifles through the increasingly mad layers of Sigan's life, but it's only his mounting frustration with his continuously unsuccessful quest. So far, the most interesting find has been a stash of portraits telling him what the sorcerer looked like in life, before he borrowed someone else's body. It gives him a curious sensation of disconnect: if he didn't know Sigan was such an egomaniac that the person in the pictures can be no one but himself, he might actually wonder whose face it is that he's seeing, because a part of him will forever associate him to Cedric.

They share the same dark hair and pale skin, and however silly it is, he would have much preferred to find out that they looked nothing alike: even though the resemblance is far from perfect, he hates how much it feels like looking in a mirror. But even from the pictures, there is something about Sigan that makes his hair stand on end, a sense that his noble profile and his air of respectability are just a veneer that might crack to reveal the filth within. Even more interestingly, the portraits never go much further in time than Merlin's own age: he can see some growth if he compares them, a loss of the boyishness of the earliest works, a few more lines on one version of his face than on another, superficial changes such as a period in which he must have liked to wear his hair longer; but then the series just stops abruptly, as though he refused to document his aging, as if he hoped to remain forever young simply by not having his likeness painted as he grew old.

He finds yet more books, and still not a trace of magic. For all his flaws, Sigan must have been a very learned man in a number of subjects other than sorcery. They're no longer gathered in a neat little collection, but scattered, left to collect dust in tottering piles with no rhyme or reason. Merlin can almost see his gradual descent into obsession: as he delves further into his belongings, he notices that Sigan begins to lose interest in the finer things in life, and instead develops a single-minded focus on medicine and philosophy, as if he hoped to find the secret of life and death in the convoluted words of ancient scholars speculating about the immortality of the soul, or he wished to stave off the inevitable end by means of some miraculous cure. Merlin suddenly regrets not bringing a larger satchel: Gaius would chop off his right hand for some of these.

He's beginning to believe the old man had the right of it when he said Sigan may not have written a word of his own: judging by the way this is going, he's increasingly afraid he will emerge into the well-lit corridors of the castle with empty hands and reluctant feet, forced to admit that the sorcerer's secrets followed him to the grave. He's reached the very end of the crypt: unless there are more hidden rooms branching out beyond this, he's looked everywhere. His shoulders sag. It was all for nothing. Holding on to his very last bit of stubborn hope, he walks up to yet another raven statue and looks at it as if in challenge. Rather than perched on a column, this one is mounted directly on the wall at about chest height, little more than a head of stony feathers, beak open in a silent cry. It's really quite conspicuous, jutting out like that from an otherwise empty stretch of damp stone, and it looks like it ought to do something—spout water, perhaps, from a long-dried reserve somewhere behind the wall? But no, there's no drain set in the floor at his feet, nowhere for it to go, and the place would soon have been flooded. Besides, what use would there be for a fountain in a tomb, unless Sigan was so set on returning that he went as far as to provide for the eventuality of waking up thirsty from his deathly slumber?

He pushes and pulls at it, grasping the base almost as if wanting to wring the bird's neck, entertaining the notion that it might be some sort of lever, but it doesn't budge, it just stares at him unseeingly, branding him a fool for his wishful thinking. Merlin turns on his heel and starts making his miserable way back.

The floor gives way under his foot and his heart gives a leap.

_Click. Whoosh._

He erects a hasty shield around himself – bless you, Arthur, bless the endless drills, bless the knights launching attacks against imaginary foes as soon as it dissolves and beating a hasty retreat as it reforms around them, stronger, wider, faster – and whips around as he feels something connect behind him.

It's unlike any other time on the training grounds: his protective dome has been subjected to swords, maces, arrows, crossbow bolts, lances long enough to run him through like a roast pig on a spit, and every time he felt an echo of the force of it, but none of the blows carried magic with them. As far as arrows go, this one looks perfectly unassuming, lying on the floor where it dropped on impact, but his shield is still sizzling with the effort to burn away the foreign power attempting to pierce through it. Or, he supposes, not foreign anymore, for it bears the same signature as the curse on the wall, a feeling of unclean stickiness trying to spread as far as it can reach, burning as it goes. One second of delay and he would have ended up like the unfortunate man who first stumbled upon this place, the magic enhancing whatever poison it's laced with and draining him of life in moments, leaving behind an empty husk.

His first thought is that there's only one place it can have come from, and it's the one he's just left. The trajectory looks about right: he must simply have stepped on a different tile the first time around, and triggered the half magical, half mechanical wrath of the raven on the wall upon his return. Had some strange instinct guided his steps? Even before he knew of his magic, Arthur often remarked on his ‘funny feelings’—was there more than an empty wish to find something in his spike of interest for the statue?

His second thought is that even a man as insane as Sigan wouldn't go to the trouble of setting up such a trap to protect nothing. The other one he knows of was meant to deter those who had their eyes set on the jewel containing his soul; if there's a pattern, at least in this if not in the chaos of the room, there must be something else of immense value nearby.

The problem is that there is nothing he can see. It's a dead end: he has left the last of the glittering riches behind, and the only thing in front of him is the wall itself. Who would shoot poisoned arrows at anyone who approaches a blank, unremarkable wall? Had Sigan truly taken leave of his senses by the time he built this section? He'd seemed so well-spoken, tempting him through Cedric's mouth with words of honey, almost rational even in his delusions of grandeur, not a paranoid wretch trying to defend empty air.

He tries a second, more thorough inspection of the wall, hoping to find some writing he'd missed or some other clue pointing to what the raven is protecting, but he can see nothing of the sort. He tries his luck pressing random sections of the stone, waiting for another telltale _click_ that never comes. This wall isn't nearly as smooth as Sigan's unsurpassed creation above ground: it's almost as if he simply stopped bothering by the time he got this far, the finely carved raven the only adornment of something resembling a natural cave more than a man-made room, too beautiful, too civilized to belong. He runs tentative hands along the rough bumps and dents, feeling for something, anything, by touch alone, his magic tightly contained for fear of a repeat.

His fingers catch on something. His breath quivering, he backtracks, squinting in the low light, to see what caused the impression—yes, there's something here, a deep groove he might have dismissed as another indentation in the barely carved rock, but too straight, too precise to be naturally occurring. His heart picks up speed as he follows along it, up, up, that sharp corner can't be there without a reason, then horizontally, then down—it's a perfect square, sectioned off from the wall directly below the raven, as if it were watching over it. He doesn't know if he's found what he was looking for, but he's damn sure he's found something.

In any other place, a quick spell would force it open and he would be done with his task, but bitter experience has left him shy about using magic on anything that's been tampered with by Sigan. Trying to pry it open by hand proves useless, for the grooves are much too thin for his fingers to get any purchase; he needs something he can wedge into them. Desperately, almost forgetting to sidestep the booby-trapped tile in his haste, he dives back into the piles of valuables, searching, praying—there! Lying daintily on red velvet is a small, needle-thin dagger, barely more than a letter opener, with an intricate handle of finely wrought silver in the shape of – what else? – Sigan's omnipresent raven, with gems for eyes that very nearly match the blue of his trapped soul. He can only hope its fellow on the wall appreciates his choice.

He skids to a halt in front of the wall, kneeling on the hard stone to work without having to stoop, and drives the tip of the ceremonial weapon into the groove, bursting with hope. He follows the shape more than once, but no amount of sliding, wriggling or pushing yields any result. The only thing he's managed is perhaps to dull its perfect sharpness a bit.

“Damn it.” The dagger clatters to the floor as he lets go of it and punches the wall in frustration.

There must be something he can do, some trick to revealing what's behind, maybe some form of magic he's never seen that can open up the wall without risks. Faced with the work of a sorcerer who had not only power, but the knowledge to back it up, he's furious with his own inadequacy.

“What do you want?” he asks uselessly, looking up at the raven and not caring that he's talking to an unresponsive statue.

He reaches up, touching the beak in frustrated curiosity—and he hisses in pain. The thing has just tried to bite his finger with a sound of grinding stone.

He narrows his eyes at it. “What?”

He tries again, this time bracing himself for it, letting it have its way with his eyes screwed shut in anticipation, and it bites down viciously, capturing his index finger in its cold stone mouth. He wriggles it out, watching the beak fall shut and open again. Had it been any sharper, he'd likely be bleeding by now.

Wait.

Oh, gods.

He's heard of this; he's steered well clear of it, but he's seen more than his fair share of magic that requires some form of blood sacrifice. He'd been led to believe the term was little better than an elegant euphemism for murder: a life to save another, a life to tear the veil to the spirit world, and a life to repair it. In his woefully uneducated mind, the words ‘blood sacrifice’ conjure images of grand magic that shakes the very fabric of the world and leaves it changed in its wake; but what if the stone guardian means it literally, staring at him with his beak wide open like a hungry fledgling waiting to be fed by its mother? Sigan was certainly capable of killing; but to take a life in cold blood every time he wanted access to whatever treasures the wall might hide? He fervently hopes the statue isn't asking for such a high toll to pay.

He picks up the dagger with sweat-damp hands and prays he's interpreted the heavy hints correctly.

“Do you want me to feed you?”

He presses the tip to the pad of his finger, letting a bright red bead pool on his skin. The sting seems to come with a delay and he winces at it, squeezing slightly to let blood drip into the opening. It snaps shut and he hurries to suck on the small cut, tasting its metallic tang and making a mental note that he really should make it a habit to carry his own medicine bag wherever he goes.

He can swear there's a satisfied gleam in the raven's lifeless eyes, and when its beak opens once more, it's as clean as if nothing had happened.

The soft grinding that comes with its movements is followed by a louder, deeper rumble from within the wall, and the square patch slides down to reveal a perfect cubic compartment, as deep as it is wide, empty save for a small wooden stand, and on the stand—

He's done it.

He hasn't lost nearly enough blood for his vision to start swimming, but at the sight before him, it's a close thing.

Sigan's grimoire.

 

Merlin's elation had lasted all of a second. Upon opening the book, flipping through it as if he could absorb it just by rushing madly through the pages, he'd found that it was entirely written in the same strange symbols etched on the setting of Sigan's jewel. He still remembered the words to Gaius's translation, but that didn't mean he could read of the rest of it, and he'd very nearly let frustrated tears fall on the ancient parchment before shaking himself and rising from the stone floor, his knees complaining of their ill treatment, heading straight for his mentor's tower. If he could make sense of it once, he could provide him with a way to do it twice.

And so it is that he finds himself pounding on his door once more, his bag weighed down by what could be the answer to his prayers, a distracted “Come in!” inviting him forward.

When he enters, Gaius has his back to the door and appears to be fiddling with a potion like countless times before—except that, unlike before, the thing is fizzing angrily in a way he's never known it to in all the years they worked together. He doesn't bother to fight down his grin. By the time the old man turns around to greet him, any trace of gold has faded from his eyes, but his activities speak for themselves.

Seeing such obvious magic on display here, something clicks in his mind. Sigan can wait another minute.

“You should write to Alice,” he says without warning, thoroughly enjoying the way Gaius's jaw slackens. “I hear she's perfectly nice with no magical creatures in the way, and there's plenty of room now that I've left.”

“I've been such a fool,” he says, his mind somewhere else entirely. “Nothing but an old fool who's learnt to love his solitude. I can't believe I've wasted all this time.”

“Do I hear wedding bells?” he teases. He would thoroughly deserve it: these rooms have been too empty for one man since Merlin got his own. Gaius looks pointedly away. “Are you _blushing_?”

The physician clears his throat loudly. “Enough about me. Do tell me you bring good news.”

“Both kinds, actually.” He lets the book peek from his bag and manages to make the other man's jaw drop a second time in as many minutes. “This is obviously the good news. The bad news…” he goes to find a spot on the cluttered table large enough to let the grimoire fall open, “is I can't make heads nor tails of it.”

Gaius's eyes flash with recognition, and together, they make quick work of freeing the rest of the table from the permanent mess to make room for several thick, intimidating tomes.

“Let's get to work.”

When Merlin finally leaves, it's after sundown, his head is full of the strange and convoluted rules of Sigan's language, and he can hardly see past the pile of books he's carrying back to his room. He unloads his heavy armful of knowledge on his desk and steps back, winded, to admire the result. It looks more like his idea of a proper Court Sorcerer's workspace than ever, with those hefty volumes full of odd symbols and unanswered questions. But books aren't made to sit there and look pretty. He's nowhere close to finding what he's truly searching for, and Arthur is expecting results.

The following days pass in a blur of late night reading and frantic note-taking. He knows he probably isn't sleeping as much as he should, but Sigan's work seems to repulse him and suck him in in equal measures.

The grimoire is completely unlike his own in every possible way. The book he received from Gaius seems to have been put together and augmented over many years by multiple writers, resulting in a hodgepodge of handwritings and styles and even in stark differences in the quality of the material from section to section, and the margins are filled with decades of notes of which his own are only the most recent layer; Sigan's is consistent, made only of the finest parchment money could buy, and even without understanding any of it, he can tell at first sight that it's all in one hand, a small, cramped, endless chain of writing that makes the curvy glyphs he's been studying look like angular, angry versions of themselves. There are furious erasures, corrections between the lines, even tinier sidenotes that make his tired eyes squint in the candlelight, and where another might have underlined key passages or idly drawn little hands with their fingers pointing to the relevant parts, Sigan's idea of highlighting his own best work is to sketch ravens in the margins, beaks indicating where to look. This is not a book meant to be shared: no one else has ever added to it, and Merlin suspects the author never intended for another soul to see it.

The parts of the day he doesn't spend studying or feeding himself just enough to go right back to his desk, Merlin finds himself devoting to long baths, scrubbing himself nearly raw and never getting enough. He's never smelled this clean, but the feeling of being dirty runs deeper than his skin.

There are spells of transformation, detailed chronicles of daring experiments on his own body that suggest that Sigan's fixation on ravens went as far as to be able to turn into one at will: these he copies down, intrigued and distracted in turn by the sorcerer's curious style of writing. Parts of the book read more like an autobiography than a series of instructions, a rambling celebration of his accomplishments, a personal journal interspersed with spells and enchantments.

But there are also spells to make a fool of Mother Nature herself, upsetting her delicate rhythms on a whim, playing with the moon and sun for the sake of feeling more like god than man, and he doesn't even want to contemplate those.

There are spells to hurt, to extract information from reluctant lips with pain beyond imagination; spells to control and subdue, to strike fear in courageous hearts and make obedient playthings of the most wilful of men; spells to take a life as easily as snuffing out a candle, unnaturally prolonging your own at the expense of another's. Even the healing spells capable of pulling someone away from death's doorstep were not, he suspects, added to the collection out of some sudden philanthropic impulse: he still dutifully transcribes them for his mentor to enjoy, but he wishes for nothing better than a spell to forget, to unsee, to go back to being the person he was before knowing any of this existed.

But the mention of the city's magical defenses continues to escape him, no hint of the curse that barred his access to the spells woven in the very foundations of Camelot, no explanation of how those spells were cast in the first place, until he turns a page to find no writing at all, and he nearly cries with relief.

It's a map, an intricate, full-page illustration of Sigan's endeavor, its colors still vibrant, giving a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘bird's eye view’ now that Merlin knows of his abilities. The shape is not quite the one he knows, for the confines of Camelot have been altered since Sigan's time as its population prospered and spilled over, additional dwellings have been built and then enclosed in new fortifications to allow for the increase in numbers, but there's no mistaking it.

He keeps reading with trembling hands, painstakingly translating the grandiose account of the construction, and his heart sinks. He knows now why his attempt was rejected so violently: Sigan crafted the magic from the ground up to ensure that no up-and-coming rival would ever challenge his position, setting up a vicious curse that would befall whoever tried to wrest control of his work away from him, condemning the current ruler to be ever dependent on his services and clearly already planning to live forever. Judging by the subsequent layers of corrections littering this section, he'd started out with the best of intentions, his thoughts growing increasingly dark even as the castle grew in splendor, until, ironically, the city was better insulated against Sigan's paralyzing fear of loss of status than against external attacks. There are no instructions whatsoever on how to bypass or break the curse: if he couldn't control Camelot himself, Sigan went to great lengths to make sure nobody else could. If he were here and he could somehow be persuaded to relinquish his authority over to Merlin, then his mission would be accomplished, but that's impossible on several levels: first, because he's not about to release Sigan back into the world of the living, and second, because even if he did, nothing could convince him to acknowledge his superiority, if he can boast that at all. For all of Gaius's unwavering belief, he's not remotely certain he could gain the upper hand in an outright magical battle.

The only thing that keeps him going at this point is to tell himself the answer will be on the next page, then the next, then the next… surely the citadel won't fall if he takes one little break, just for a minute…

He wakes to find his cheek sticking to the pages of one of Gaius's reference books, the candles reduced to puddles of melted wax, and the king himself shaking the sleep out of him. His neck protests the long, awkward stillness as he rises with a gasp, squinting in the too-bright sunlight filtering from the window.

“You were supposed to be on the grounds an hour ago.”

“Oh, gods, Arthur, I'm so sorry, I overslept,” he rushes to apologize once his meaning reaches his sleepy mind. “You could have sent someone, I mean, you're the king, kings aren't supposed to come wake up their subjects.”

“They are when said subject has been dead on his feet for days. The first requirement for a Court Sorcerer is to _stay alive_ , in case it escaped your notice.”

What breaks through the residual fog in his brain is that that was probably Arthur-speak for ‘I'm worried about you, but I won't be caught dead saying so.’

“But the book…”

“… will be only too happy to escape your clutches for one day. Some of us are going hunting later. See that you have a horse ready, you're coming with us, no discussion.”

“Hold on, I must still be half asleep. Your idea of taking a relaxing break is to go kill something?”

“It does wonders to clear your head. Be there, or else.”

 

As the Court Sorcerer, Merlin is even more useless on a hunting party than he was as a servant. Dragging him along was clearly the first excuse that went through the king's mind to get him out of his room: now that protocol says he no longer has to submit to the indignity of carrying everyone's supplies like a common packhorse, he is literally doing nothing but breathing too loudly for his royal taste, if the constant shushing noises and whispered complaints are any indication. Gwaine, to his embarrassment, seems to find it entertaining in the extreme, looking back and forth between them and trying to decide who to root for.

Still, maybe Arthur had a point. He's so tired he's barely keeping upright in the saddle, but he can't deny the pull of the outdoors. They take pleasure in being in the woods for completely different reasons, but perhaps a trip like this really is what he needed, even if he will always fail to see the appeal in shooting at creatures that cannot fight back. He wonders if that's how Sigan began to see humankind, once he amassed enough power to treat the world as his playground… but no, he has very emphatically promised himself not to think of Sigan for a while and he intends to keep that promise.

Being out here is more cleansing than soaking in a tub for hours on end. While the others are keeping an eye out for game, Merlin loses himself in the bustle of life populating the forest, and lets it chase away the sticky remnants of darkness that never seem to have left him entirely since the debacle of the walls. Even at its most silent, a place like this is never truly still to his extended senses: where a single insect, a single leaf rustling in the breeze, a single blade of grass at his horse's feet might appear insignificant compared to the greater whole, together they hum softly with a magic of their own, a wholesome, incessant thrum of energy that makes thoughts of curses crawling along his skin seem ages away and keeps him more awake than he has been in days.

Oddly, he seems to be the only one who's enjoying himself, which is a definite change to the usual hunting expeditions. While he lets the busy feeling of life fill his lungs with every breath and eat away at his weariness and lingering unease, the others, Arthur chief among them, are showing increasing signs of frustration at their apparent lack of success. Let them complain, Merlin thinks unkindly. He's been feeling little else lately; turnabout is fair play.

They've tied their horses some distance away and are now proceeding on foot, not that it helps any. They're less conspicuous this way, but the absence of prey is souring the hunters' mood, and while the part of Merlin that feels sorry for the countless innocent rabbits he's been made to carry back to the kitchens is secretly cheering for the animals and hoping they stay hidden, the king is a lot easier to deal with after a plentiful trip than after one that came to nothing.

He jumps when he hears the cooing call of a pigeon nearby, but that only causes the party to burst into laughter, his new position be damned.

“Mate, that was me.”

Gwaine lets out an imitation of the bird's sound so perfect it's hard to believe he's not hiding a live pigeon under his cloak.

“I didn't know you could do that. Pretty impressive.”

“You learn some pretty nifty tricks when you're hungry,” he says, shrugging off the compliment, and lets loose another cooing noise. Merlin has never heard a pigeon sound so smug. “You trick them into thinking you're one of them, and dinner is served.”

If asked, Merlin will forever be unable to explain how his sleep-deprived brain made the connection, but in that exact moment, the plan slots into place fully formed. It's so easy, it's so perfect, that he wonders how he didn't see it before. He's not certain it will work, but it feels right, and he's long since learnt to trust his gut.

“Trick them into…?”

He gapes at the knight like a landed fish, a slow grin forming on his face, and grasps his hands in his own as if he could somehow send Gwaine his outpouring of gratitude through the contact.

“Gwaine, I could kiss you right now.”

His friend looks at him like the proverbial cat that got the cream and leans forward with puckered lips, making him jump back in shock.

“Gods, Gwaine, I didn't mean it literally! Just… you're a genius, you know that?”

It's the other man's turn to gape, clearly not following Merlin's line of thought, but he regains his composure as quickly as it had gone.

“What did I say? Not that I'm not aware that I'm wickedly smart as well as ruggedly handsome…”

“If it works, you'll know. The whole city will know. Thank you, thank you, thank you! Oh, and Arthur? Don't make me say it again, but you were right, hunting does clear your head.”

Said extremely puzzled king just looks upon the exchange like he's missed a piece or three to understand it, but he scrambles to recover a passable air of kingly authority.

“Merlin, a word, if you're _quite_ done scaring away the game even further?” He gestures vaguely away from the group to demand privacy and Merlin follows him off the path until he's satisfied that the others won't be listening in.

“What was _that_?”

“I know what to do about the walls.”

The king's eyes flash with astonished hope, but the rest of Merlin's brain is quickly catching up with his initial burst of thoughtless optimism, and he's starting to see the major flaw in the plan.

“And… you probably won't like it.”

“If it must be done, I don't have to like it.”

Merlin believes there's a way to enact his plan without the king's vehement objections, but it all hinges on his still being in that strangely acquiescent mood that granted him easy access to the crypt, no questions asked, and after today, he's not counting on it.

“I need you to come down to Sigan's tomb with me, and bring Excalibur with you.”

_Please, just say yes and be done with it…_

“The first part I understand, but what's my sword got to do with anything?”

So much for ‘no questions asked.’ The next words taste bitter in Merlin's mouth, because they're much too close to keeping secrets again, and he hasn't needed to do that for a while. Clearly, he was a fool for ever letting himself get used to it.

“Just… just trust me, all right? You're the one who said you didn't have to like it. You'll know when we get there.”

 

Merlin is waiting at the entrance to Sigan's tomb, reminding himself for the fifth time that chickening out is not an option. His gleaming, perfect plan, now that he's about to put it into action, feels more like the ramblings of a madman. He hasn't counted the things that could go wrong, but even one is too many.

Arthur makes his appearance around the corner, fearless, for once, out of ignorance rather than his usual nerves of steel, and yet Merlin suddenly knows why the Keeper of the Bridge labelled him Courage, because he feels a little of his own returning at the sight of him. He sees Excalibur shining proudly on his belt and braces himself. Arthur's unintended pearl of wisdom applies to them both: if it must be done, he doesn't have to like it.

“Well? We're here, now what?” he says without even the luxury of a ‘hello’.

“Now… we get Sigan's soul out.”

Arthur doesn't even waste time on surprise and moves straight to disapproval. “Forget it. Once was enough.”

“No, wait, hear me out!” he says before the king can motion to leave, his raised voice echoing in the dungeon. “The jewel is enchanted to contain it. Once it was safely back inside, I could literally carry it in my hand like a common rock.”

“And exactly how do you plan on _getting_ it back inside?”

“I can fight him off,” he claims with a confidence he doesn't feel.

He supposes it's at least partly true. Thinking back, he finds that the knowledge Kilgharrah gifted him with hasn't left him: there had been an urgency to his steps the first time around, as if his head felt on the verge of bursting with it and he feared it would fade from his mind if he didn't put it to use immediately, but the words, the feeling of it, have sedimented in his memory, ready at his fingertips. But even that is not foolproof, for Sigan doesn't operate like Merlin does, in an instinctive burst that simply consumes the obstacles in its path. Both in his words and in his magic, he is slippery, a master manipulator who will try to maneuver around him and attack from unexpected directions if he tries to meet him head on with supposedly superior power.

“I'll hold you to that. Let's go.”

Arthur takes the lead as naturally as breathing, but he stops just a few steps in, gesturing at the jewel.

“Is that…?”

“Yes.”

“Hard to believe that's a man's soul.”

“Hard to believe he had one in the first place, but here we are.”

Mindful of the stone raven watching them from its perch, they stand facing each other on either side of Sigan's remains, their faces cast in the blue glow of the heart-shaped vessel.

“Well, I suppose now I know what you wanted Excalibur for, even if we could just as easily do without. Acquired a taste for the dramatic, have you?”

He draws his sword and, in one swift motion, makes to drive it into the setting of the jewel.

“No, wait!”

Arthur freezes before it makes contact, looking puzzled at the interruption.

“What?” He lets the weapon hang at his side, waiting for an explanation of Merlin's behavior.

“See those symbols on the setting? They read: ‘He who breaks my heart completes my work.’ If you're the one to get it out, Sigan will turn on you first.”

“You said you could fight him off.”

“You don't understand. Cedric didn't survive the possession. He died when Sigan left his body, and I'm not about to let the same happen to you. It has to be me.”

“We _really_ need to talk about that self-sacrificing streak of yours. But if you can drive him back into the jewel all by yourself, why am I here?”

Merlin swallows. Here it comes.

“You're… you're my backup plan. See, I finally learnt to have one of those.”

“Explain,” Arthur commands, his voice tight.

“If… if this goes wrong… if Sigan succeeds in taking over… he'll be as powerful as both of us combined. Nothing short of Excalibur could kill him.”

“While in _your_ body, I might add. This is mad, Merlin! You've just as good as asked me to kill you!”

“Only if it goes wrong! And it won't matter then, because if you don't stop him, we're all dead. You can't hesitate, Arthur, not over this. I don't know what he might do if he wins, he might even try to convince you that I'm still me, but don't listen to a word he says.”

“I can't let you do this.”

“If it comes down to me or Camelot, I've already made my choice, and if you're half the king I know you to be, so have you.”

His hand tightens around his weapon, and he swallows in turn.

“Do it. I'll be ready.”

He covers the jewel with both hands, feeling the metal give way under his coaxing tendrils of magic, and he hardly has time to think before the bright blue glow begins to bleed out, snaking up his arms with a now familiar sensation of clinging filth, looking for an opening.

“ _Ic_ _þín_ _sáwol_ _hér_ _beluce_ , _abide_ _þæt_ _ic_ _þé_ _álíese!_ ”

The spell makes the darkness feel sluggish, slow, as if an opposing force were pulling it in the other direction, but Sigan isn't about to let himself be stopped by words alone. Merlin can feel the shift in the extraneous presence sniffing for an entrance, the moment it coalesces into something with an intelligence, and he wants to screw his eyes shut, clap his hands over his ears, hold his breath, even, if it keeps him from finding his way in, but it's as good as trying to stop smoke with his bare hands.

Dimly, he feels himself falling hard to his knees, his hands still glued to the faceted surface of the jewel, but the bruising pain in his joints is nothing to the turmoil within, his magic nearly ripping him apart as it lashes out against the intrusion, and it's all he can do to pull himself together and _think_ , because he can't let himself be swept away, it's too easy to lose himself in this, and it's exactly what Sigan wants, for him to lose himself.

Yes. He can give him a name now. Names are a good idea, they help keep things separate, Merlin on one side, Sigan on the other, kept from merging together by the force of the spell compelling the disembodied soul back into its vessel, but he's fighting tooth and nail against it, struggling to break free.

_Ah, the young sorcerer hiding in plain sight. Changed your mind, have you?_

His mental voice sounds nothing like Cedric, but he realizes now why the man made such an easy, willing vessel: the conman's oily manner is so much like Sigan's that they must have gotten on like a house on fire.

_You remember?_

_How could I forget? All that power… I only had a taste of it. I never hoped you'd let me come back for seconds so soon. Have you finally grown tired of grovelling at your prince's feet?_

Merlin pushes back harder, seizing the advantage with all ten fingers. Sigan has his memories of their last encounter, but no sense of time, no knowledge of current events.

_There's so much you don't know. He is king now._

_Hardly any better. That spoiled brat will have gone mad with power._

_That's rich, coming from you. You have no idea what the ‘spoiled brat’ has done. I don't need you and your empty promises, Sigan. I walk beside him now, not a step behind. Magic is free, and so am I._

_How cute, the little sorcerer has done well for himself. Enjoying it, aren't you? I know how power works, Merlin. You may think you're satisfied now, but someday, you'll find yourself wanting more. I can help you speed things along, if you'll let me._

_That's where you'd be wrong. We're different, you and I. I can hardly want more of something I never asked for in the first place._

Sigan's magic shoves against him, trying to gain ground.

_And where will that get you? You'll be begging for scraps from the king's table like a lapdog all your life, when the heavens themselves are at your mercy!_

Merlin shoves back. He's angry. Good. Angry people make mistakes, he's learnt that from training.

_I quite like the heavens as they are, thank you._

_And what happens when he replaces you? When your king grows tired of you, when some other sorcerer comes along who isn't afraid of his own gifts, who makes himself more indispensable than you could ever be?_

The words are like a stab, and he can feel Sigan trying to slither into the open wound, but he channels his pain into another desperate push, because he can't let him know he hit close to home, he can't give any hint that he's had similar thoughts, that perhaps there's someone out there who could fill the impossible shoes of Court Sorcerer better, he can't, he can't, lives will be lost if he gives even an inch.

 _You're young, inexperienced. I can teach you so much,_ he continues, sugary sweet, tempting. _Let me help you, and soon your king won't know what to do without you. You'll never have to fear being replaced again._

 _Magic alone does not make a Court Sorcerer,_ he spits at him in his mind, feeling himself smile at how closely it echoes his previous thoughts and yet manages to mean something else entirely. _It's not about how much you have or how you use it. You can make yourself indispensable just by being a good friend, not that you'd know anything about that. And as for teaching me, I've seen the things I could learn from you, and I want nothing to do with them._

Another push, his magic encroaching on Sigan's territory, suffocating him, his every thought fixed on reclaiming space, forcing him to look for breathing room somewhere else, away from him, out, out, out, and he's probably screaming, but that doesn't matter, the physical world doesn't matter when he's waging war in his own mind, and as suddenly as it started, it's over.

He's panting as if he'd run for miles without stopping, but the jewel is glowing bright blue, loose in its setting, keeping solid stone between him and Sigan, and oh, what a beautiful feeling, _solid_ , that's his new favorite word, he loves the fact that he's solid too, that he can feel his body, wiggle his toes in his boots just for the sake of having his limbs respond to his thoughts, smiling tiredly up at Arthur because his hands are on his shoulders and they're so blissfully solid too, how nice.

“Is that… is that you, Merlin?”

“Yeah. Still me.” Talking feels like a chore, his tongue is slow, uncooperative, so he holds up the stony heart demonstratively, because that's easier than stringing words together.

At some point while he was engaging with Sigan, seeing and hearing nothing but his furious inner battle, Arthur has drawn Excalibur, and his hand tightens on it, mindful of his earlier warnings. “Prove it.”

“Your favorite dish is herb-crusted capons, the sword you're holding was forged by Gwen's father Tom, and in case you needed reminding, you're a complete _clotpole_.”

“That last one was particularly persuasive. What happened? It was like… you weren't all there.”

“I wasn't. And wherever I was, I don't ever want to go back, if I can help it.”

 

Carrying Sigan's soul feels strange, almost as if he had two hearts, one in his hand, making weak attempts to pulse as though in protest through the unyielding stone, sensing his intentions and railing against them, contained by his own spell, and the other beating wildly in his chest, hoping, praying it wasn't all in vain.

There's a different pair of guards this time, but their misgivings are the same, because in a kingdom that banned magic for two decades and counting, you don't get to parade around an obviously enchanted artifact without getting any dirty looks, even now that the laws have changed. Arthur's steady presence by his side is a shield against their lingering distrust, a living and breathing free pass, because he's the king, and clearly, anything done under his watchful eyes must be legitimate.

Electing to stand in the same spot where he failed before may be petty, but it feels like poetic justice as he touches the wall with his free hand, watching Arthur exude enough calm and confidence for both of them, reassuring the townsfolk who slow their incessant comings and goings at the unusual spectacle, telling them just by standing there that there's nothing to see here, everything's fine, move along.

Like before, he reaches out, seeking the magic woven in the stonework; but unlike before, he's not alone. If he's right, he'll be able to trick the defenses into believing Sigan is truly back and calling upon them, the lure of his soul acting as a counterfeit call leading a bird to its death. Ironic, with the way the man was obsessed with birds.

“Come on, now,” he murmurs, “your old master is here.”

He's vaguely aware of the jewel flaring hotter and brighter in his hand as if screaming against his attempt, but in this form, Sigan is like a tamed beast that's one second away from turning on its owner, but will still grudgingly obey his commands.

He lets his eyes fall shut and allows the other man's magic to flow alongside his own, his body tensing as it acts as a conduit for both, the jewel's restraining influence keeping them separate, and it's almost too much, his flesh and blood can barely handle the power of one, let alone two. He cries out as they tussle furiously inside him, and he's reminded of dogs or wolves battling for dominance, rolling around until one concedes defeat and lies belly-up in the dirt, the most vulnerable part of it exposed to the victor's mercy. He registers the wordless sound morphing in his throat from one of pain to one of exultation as he comes out on top.

He drives deeper into the wall, envisioning a thread of pure gold coated in a layer of sticky blue, the conflicting magics woven so tightly together that if Sigan's finely crafted net of spells accepts one, it cannot reject the other.

They connect, and it's all he can do not to pull away, crushed by the scope of it. His magical awareness has never stretched this far, and it's beautiful and terrifying both. It's like touching history in its making: the original fortifications from Sigan's time are alive with the soft thrum of the spells he laid into them as they were built, harmless ones, to make the venerable white stones sturdier against the relentless attacks of time and passing seasons, but there are gaps where subsequent repairs were made without him, like tears in his carefully woven net where the links stretch desperately to tie with one another and meet obstacles between them, and the more recent sections feel dull and inert by comparison, illuminated only by the dim light of the magic inherent in all things. He feels it all as though he were everywhere at once, his consciousness stretched thin over the walls, the courtyard, the towering mass of the castle, brushing lightly against the many statues lying dormant and awaiting their master's call.

And couched deep beneath it all, the curse is simmering, confused, a red-hot thread in the net that doesn't dare lash out, fearful of harming its creator along with the perceived intruder. Merlin unpicks it carefully, speaking to the walls in tongues both old and new, pleading for access, and the effect is instantaneous, a wave of magic that starts from the point of contact and spreads through the web in moments, multiplying faster each time it meets a node until it's enveloping the entire city, burning away the evil left behind by Sigan in a cleansing fire.

The jewel drops from his slackened hand and the extraneous power is sucked abruptly back into its source, leaving him bereft and relieved at once as the gold shines brighter in the absence of the unwanted blue guest, and there's no reaction. The net is his.

Behind closed eyelids, Merlin has no idea if the people around him are seeing what he's seeing or if this is only a construct of his mind that doesn't reflect on reality, he doesn't know if the spectacle he's offering is more akin to a fearsome sorcerer for bards to sing about or an idiot standing there with his hand on the wall doing nothing, but he doesn't care. Let them look.

His magic spills into the pre-existing web, and he's glad now that he's read so much about its nature in search of an answer that ended up coming from somewhere else, because his fruitless nights bending over the grimoire at least told him how to replicate it, how to shape his own power to create more tendrils, mending it, almost feeling its gratitude and relief as he finally helps it cover the parts it was unable to reach, shoring up the newer, weaker additions that didn't have the advantage of magic against the onslaught of the heavens and are already aging more rapidly than the rest.

There's only one thing left to do.

“ _Burgweardas, onwacaþ! Híersumaþ mē!_ ”

With his eyes still closed, he can tell it worked by the sounds: a distant cacophony of grinding stone as, one by one, the creatures of nightmare adorning every corner emerge from their deep slumber, awaiting his command. And then the screams. Merlin can't find it in himself to blame them: many of these people were here the last time it happened, perhaps even lost someone to Sigan's revenge, and to them, statues taking on a semblance of life can mean nothing good.

“Stay calm! He's acting by order of the king!”

As his hand finally leaves the wall and he opens his eyes to gauge just how badly he's managed to frighten them this time, Merlin's first silly thought is that there must be some trick to make their voices carry farther that all future kings are taught, because Arthur's words stop people in their tracks with the force of an explosion, but even he can't reach them all from out here.

From the direction of the castle, a single gargoyle leaves its perch to fly towards them, great wings carved in imitation of leather, monkeyish face intent on its task, and lands heavily on the grounds in an unmistakable bow, acknowledging its new master. Merlin gets the sense that it is somehow the chief, the stony equivalent of the captain of the guard, and that whatever he says to it goes for them all.

He's barely opened his mouth when a tiny voice stops him dead.

“Wow! See, I told you, Daddy, I _told_ you!”

A small figure is dragging a larger man impatiently by the sleeve up the path to the castle, and it takes him a moment to wrench his mind away from his recent, strange experience enough to match his face to a name and realize with a fond smile that it's Alymere, the boy with dreams of knighthood bigger than himself.

“Do you know him?” asks Arthur.

“Long story.”

The pair has reached them, and if the stocky man who must be his father eyes the waiting gargoyle warily as he bows deeply to the king and then rises and regards Merlin awkwardly, unsure what the rules call for, the boy has no such compunctions.

“This is so much better than the dragons!”

Arthur can only mouth the word ‘dragons’ in disbelief, demanding an explanation as soon as they're alone, and the humble woodcarver dissolves into a stream of apologies, nudging his son hard as if to say _he's the king, have I taught you nothing?_

Alymere hurries to bow in turn, but his ever-curious eyes snap right back to the statue as soon as he's done his good boy's duty.

“May I have a word with you?”

The boy's father is tense as he indicates that he wants to step away with Merlin for a moment, as if he scarcely believed he initiated the conversation, and he gives the gargoyle a universal gesture for _wait_ that is met with a respectful nod before following him.

“Well. That's… that's all quite impressive.”

“Just doing my job,” he deflects, because he truly has no clue in the world how to respond to that.

“Yes. About that. I understand my son went looking for you. Please excuse him, he's only a boy, we're all foolish at that age. Not to say that you… I mean…”

“It's alright, you're quite correct. I'm responsible for a lot of grey hairs on my mother's head.”

The man smiles weakly, and if it's true that the apple never falls far from the tree, that means they're on the right track.

“I suppose I just… wanted to hear your version of the facts, that's all. You understand, he told me everything as best as he could, but he has such an imagination, bless him, it's hard to separate the truth from his tall tales.”

Merlin keeps to the bare bones of the story, stressing that there were no real, live dragons involved and that whatever Alymere told him, the toy is most certainly not enchanted. Remembering that the man made it with his own hands, he throws in a compliment for his craftsmanship for good measure.

“You sure? Just plain old wood, the way it's always been? We can hardly pry the thing from his hands at all!”

He winces. “I apologize for the misunderstanding. I meant well, I assure you; he only _believes_ it's helping him.”

The man seems to consider him carefully.

“Hah. Well, that was clever. Just the other day, it stormed so badly we thought the house would come down on our heads, and we didn't hear a single peep from the boy!” Then he pauses, as though embarrassed by his own enthusiasm, and falls back into speaking haltingly, fearing who knows what retaliation. “Well. What I mean to say is… that was a very decent thing you did there. Thank you.”

It still stings, the way he says it with an undertone of surprise, an implied _didn't know you had it in you_ , but it's progress, and he can't help smiling as they walk back to the unlikely group formed by one overexcited child, one deferential gargoyle, and one extremely confused king. Such things can only happen in Camelot.

“How are you settling in?” he asks the kid, but his father quickly takes over from him, shooting a look at Arthur that says loud and clear that he doesn't trust his son to speak before the king without embarrassing them both.

“We're all doing well, thank you. You might be seeing more of us around; my wife found work as a laundress up at the castle, and it's best if the boy learns his way around bright and early, just in case.”

Alymere is nodding along happily, and it's plain to see that father and son have very different concepts of what _just in case_ means, one content with small ambitions of servitude, the other lost in glorious ideas of the king's sword brushing his shoulders.

“Can I go watch training, Daddy? Please, please, please? I'll be really quiet!”

“Just as long as you don't spend all day gawking,” he concedes, watching his son with one eye and the king's reaction with the other and seemingly surprised to see him smiling beningly at the little one's enthusiasm.

“Looking forward to seeing you there,” says Merlin, addressing the child directly in a way that gives the man no excuse to silence him. “Made any friends lately?”

Alymere shrugs non-committally. “Kind of. Timothy and I had a fight.”

Merlin has no idea who Timothy might be, but the boy is practically begging him to ask about it, so he plays along: “Oh? What did you fight about?”

“He says I can play with the others now, but I don't like the stories he makes up because the sorcerer is always the villain, and he got mad at me when I said he should be nice.”

That stills the breath in his lungs. When he sent the boy away with a single cherished memory and a distinctly not magical toy, he had never bargained for this. Is it possible that the change is starting from this, from children's games? He swallows, and the gargoyle's stony gaze on them all offers him the perfect chance to set him straight on the issue in a way he'll likely never forget.

“Well, you go and tell Timothy that you should take turns, because you're both right, in a way. See this?” The statue perks up, feeling his master's attention finally turn to it, and Alymere watches their interaction attentively. “It was made by someone very much like the villains in your friend's stories, so he's right to say that such people exist.”

Father and son back away slightly, and he rushes to amend: “But it's safe now.” He reaches out to touch its stony head and it acquiesces like a dog looking for a friendly pat. Merlin speaks to it, knowing by some instinct that the current language will be sufficient and grateful that his meaning will be understood: “You were created as protectors of this place. You were never meant to harm its citizens, and you will never do so again. Go back to sleep now; I will call for you if the time ever comes to aid us in battle.”

The creature bows and takes its majestic leave, and Merlin sees the resemblance between Alymere and his father now that they're both gaping.

“See, that's why you can have a turn too. The story can go both ways.”

As Alymere nods his understanding as earnestly as he can manage, Merlin is fairly certain this particular story had a happy ending.

**Author's Note:**

> The first spell is copied verbatim from the show, and if the Old English in it is questionable, you can't blame me for once.
> 
> Source: <http://merlin.wikia.com/wiki/Spells>
> 
> The second is my timid little creation again; see end notes to _All Kinds of Battles_ for sources.
> 
> Here is the intended meaning:
> 
>  _Burgweardas, onwacaþ! Híersumaþ mē!_ = City defenders, awake! Obey me!
> 
> (I thought I would need a minimum of two words to express that concept, and when the dictionary told me there was a compound that said it in one, I nearly cried a language nerd's tears of joy.)
> 
> PS: that scene with the kid had been in my head since his initial conception.
> 
> PPS: although I kept the physical description of Sigan's original face vague, I had a particular actor in mind. Extra brownie points if you can guess who. Hint: he literally preserved his soul in an external object that can possess people. *cough* *nudge*
> 
> PPPS: it probably shows, but I had way too much fun describing Sigan's life through his things and his writing. My inner history geek reared her head and demanded attention. Fun fact: drawing pointing hands to highlight passages is an attested practice in medieval manuscripts, I've seen it with my own eyes. 


End file.
